


The Quietest Parts of War

by Hanatamago



Series: Hana's AsheDue Week 2020 [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ashedue Week 2020, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanatamago/pseuds/Hanatamago
Summary: A weary Ashe and a heavily wounded Dedue regroup after the battle. With a shortage of healers, Ashe (Goddess, what was he thinking) to volunteers to dress Dedue's wounds. Dedue's thoughts drift far, far from the war around them.Day 6 of AsheDue Week: Mutual PiningM to be safe for slightly graphic wounds.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Series: Hana's AsheDue Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701187
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	The Quietest Parts of War

Fhirdiad burns in black and scarlet. 

Ash begins to swirl down from dark clouds gathering above rooftops, so thick it must burn the eyes of their fliers, if the heat alone were not enough. The air is thick with lightning and salt. Dark magic. Metal and blood, not that Dedue could distinguish between the two. 

A warhorn sounds from above. A few arrows whip past, narrowly missing his neck. His head spins. His stomach lurches. Shouting, violence, the clang of metal against wooden barricades. Blood spills through the gauntlet where Dedue clutches his side. A nearby paladin lets out a battle cry. Is he friend or foe?

Gods...

Dedue falls to his knees. Blackness blooms at the edges of his vision. Then...

Nothing.

* * *

“Dedue!” The sun is far too low in the sky. Did the battle end? Is it even the same day? Fuzzy green forms sway along the sides of his vision. Trees, perhaps. Are they still in Fhirdiad? Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the strength to give voice to his questions. His throat crackles, dry and raw. His lips seem too heavy to lift, eyelids barely managing to stay open.

“Stay with me, okay?” Ashe fades into view, shapeless save for jade-green eyes that pierce through the thick fog over his mind. They were always so striking, weren’t they? He… _Ashe_ had always been striking. With ivory skin carved from the moon itself, painted by the stars. His lips, thin and beautifully rosy in the winter. Hypnotizing, as of late, most of all when he draws them into a quiet laugh brought on by some small bit of light in the darkness of Edelgard’s war. Battle… An ugliness he dare not think of now. 

A horse whinnies somewhere nearby. The wagon lurches forwards, bumping over some stone or fallen branch. A harsh jolt shakes his armor. Pinching plates dig into his sides. His armor… it must be dented. The weight of a brigand’s blow crushes down on his chest. Searing pressure on his stomach shoots bile up his throat.

“Here, drink this.” Cool, smooth glass presses into his bottom lip. Dedue easily complies, exhausted and half-mad with hazy pain as the cart pulls through a seemingly unending forest. Astringent syrup scorches down his throat.

He tries to stay awake, for Ashe’s sake. Truly, he does, but the pain - the fog overtaking him is too heavy, too strong for him to fight. Despite himself, his eyes soon slip shut. The darkness takes him once more.

* * *

Something shakes him awake. Another bump in the road, maybe. A loud birdcall, or the swelling sounds of soldiers making camp in the distant woods. The wagon slows to a stop. 

Byleth rides up on a chestnut steed, weary, but determined. He slings one of Dedue’s arms over his shoulder, carefully lifting him off of the wagon with Ashe’s help. Together, they manage to carry him into a spacious tent. A commander’s tent. Byleth’s? A brazier crackles in the center of the room. Papers are strewn about on a folding table in the back - maps, most probably. Notes on strategy and the like. 

“W-what of the battle?” Dedue rasps. Fire burns through his throat. Dedue rubs at one of his eyes, frowning at the crust of blood drying over his temple. A concussion perhaps… That would explain his lack of coherency.

“Don’t worry about that now.” Ashe murmurs. Together, he and Byleth lower him onto a thick bedroll. “I’ve got him from here. Thank you, Professor!” He tries to push himself upwards to sit, but his elbows groan in utter refusal. Dedue falls back to the bedroll with a heavy clank.

“Hey, don’t push yourself.” Ashe kneels by his side, tucking a pillow under his head. “You got hurt pretty bad out there.”

“The battle… How did we fare?” He’s beautiful in the firelight. Dedue kicks himself. Soot stains his face, streaking where he must have tried to wipe it away. With those clouds of smoke, such a thing must have been futile. A few silver strands stick out in tufts, less wild than in his youth. Dedue fights the urge to reach out, to comb them down. It’s no rare thing to see him like this, in the aftermath, but always in crowds. In war meetings, to review the damage, in the infirmary, a few paces out in a clearing in the woods, stealing a moment of silence more often than not. Yet here, alone, a glimpse of his smile is a thousand times more precious. It’s intimate...

Gods, they’ve just fought a battle. Hundreds might be dead, he might be dying, and he can’t take his mind off Ashe’s eyes.

“We took Fhirdiad, but…” Ashe worries his thin, pretty lips. A nervous habit. “We took pretty heavy losses. All of the commanders made it out, but… A lot of people died on both sides.”

 _No one we know died._

Unsaid words hang heavy in the air.

“Mercedes got ambushed around when you fell - um, she’s okay though, just unconscious. Annette and Flayn are doing so much, but there’s just too many injured.” Ashe sighs. “So you’re stuck with me until we can get a real healer. Um, triage and all that. Sorry about that.” He blushes, always quick to discount his own skills. 

Perhaps he is not trained in faith, but he knows plenty about medicine, thanks to Manuela and Lonato’s combined teachings. Triage… Dedue is alright, then. If he were so close to death, Ashe’s care would not suffice. The liquid before, a concoction of some sort, must have dealt with the worst of it. Though it may be a minor inconvenience, time will heal the rest. Though, with how long his soreness may keep up, Dedue dreads the journey south.

Dedue smiles. “You have kept me alive thus far. No apology seems necessary.” He laughs, a brilliant, crystalline sound. He is a man of relatively few charms, but gods, how he wishes he could coax such a sound from Ashe’s lips again. If only he were an arcanist, if he knew some way to bottle the sound and keep it by his side. Weariness drips through his thoughts like molasses. He must be especially exhausted to venture into such flowery tangents. Though such words may never cross his lips, he has taken to poetic thought quite often lately, especially when it comes to the archer at his side.

“Well, I think the concoction kept you alive, not me.” Ashe turns towards the brazier, adding a few logs to the low flames. “But, um, we should get you bandaged up, too.”

Dedue nods. From what he can piece together from his slashed plates and searing skin, the wound was likely caused by a thick blade of some sort. An axe or a lance, probably. Heavy, but with a good range of motion. Perhaps a short axe, or a thinner lance aimed by an experienced wielder. It mattered little now, though he remembered nothing of the wound. That much was concerning. He winces as Ashe helps him to sit up.

“Sorry, I know it hurts. I wish we had more medicine to numb the pain a little.”

“It is fine.” Dedue fumbles with the clasps on his armor. If the damage is not too severe, the monastery blacksmith may be able to repair it before their next mission. If not, he may have to take up a lighter suit of armor. Ashe’s light leather armor wouldn’t suit his style, but perhaps something made of breathable scale? On a good day, untangling the buckles and stripping away his heavy plate was a long, challenging process. Now, on an arguably bad day, with the tips of his fingers numb and weary, it was nearly impossible.

“Ah, is it alright if I…” Ashe trails off, gazing at the buckles, rather than his face. For an indiscernible reason, his cheeks burn with a rosy tint. Perhaps he worried Dedue might be embarrassed at his offer, but most knights take squires for a reason. Heavy plate is a hassle for even the most experienced warriors.

“You may certainly help.” Dedue nods his assent. “The angle is difficult for me.” Especially with his limited range of motion. The crushed plates on his left side left all manner of tangled straps and shattered clasps. 

“Y-yeah, I can see how it might be.” He stammers. Ashe carefully works at his armor, fingers lithe as he gently loosens each tie and buckle. Before long, Dedue’s shoulder guards and gauntlets lie in a neat pile on the floor. His breastplate comes off with an unpleasant rip through half-dried blood. Dedue helps with the straps on his boots and greaves, but in honesty, Ashe is far better suited for fine motions than he. Dedue may well have only gotten in the way.

Ah. With his armor off, a bit of the weight on his chest falls away. His skin breathes in the fresh air, cool at first, before the brazier fully warms their tent. Crusted black blood crumbles away from the edges of his wounds as thicker crimson blood rises to the surface to take its place. His stomach… Seeing the extent of it now, stripped of his crumpled armor, Dedue understood why he felt so faint. The sheer blood loss alone…

Silvery streaks of flesh crisscross over the laceration, telltale signs of faith magic, but not enough to fully close his wound. A partial heal, a patch to the wound, encouraging it to close. It explains why Ashe had not been so worried by his injuries. In time, his body will restore itself, though he will be weaker for the next few weeks. At least, until one of their healers can see him and properly finish what this tiny spark of magic had started.

A violent shiver erupts from his spine as Ashe’s thin fingers dip across his stomach, dabbing at the edge of the wound with a cool cloth.

“Ah, d-did I hurt you?!” Ashe stutters. “Sorry, I should have given you a warning.”

“No.” He manages in a strangled rasp. Heat blooms in his cheeks and neck. Gods bless the dim light of the brazier. “My apologies. I was simply startled.” Dedue tries for a stoic face, but with the nervous firelight reflected in Ashe’s sweet, mint-colored eyes… It is difficult to fake anything near apathy for the kind, silver-haired man.

Before they met again those few moons ago, Dedue fondly recalled him as a friendly, gentle boy with a peculiar sort of curiosity most did not display so boldly. Against all probabilities Dedue had tallied in his years in the Kingdom, Ashe, a Faerghan born and raised, had been curious about him and his culture. Open to it, even. Even in those five years on the road, his heart still lightened at the memory of how happy Ashe had been when Dedue taught him a few simple recipes passed down from his mother. 

Ashe knew his way around the garden, and doubly so in the kitchen. He knew things of the nobility, but his commoner upbringing shone so clearly in the simple things they bonded over. He kept the mannerisms of one who had come to expect scarcity, and his boundless optimism spoke of the strength he built in his darkest years. Perhaps he was smaller than the other boys in their class, but his slender build lent him agility, and he had more resilience than met the eye. Dedue never would have said it to his face, but Ashe was quite cute then, with his mess of tangled silver hair and glimmering green eyes.

But now… Years later, with his aim steady and lean, corded muscle stretching along his shoulders, he was nothing short of breathtaking. He’d had… Impure thoughts, to say the least. Lying here, bleeding out on a bedroll in the middle of the woods, his mind uselessly summons up the short glimpse he’d had of Ashe bathing in the river on their march to Fhirdiad, bare above the lazily flowing water at his waist. Gods, he should repent for thinking of Ashe like that. 

Dedue had taken an early evening watch that night to scout the woods for any straggling Empire soldiers. Stripped of his heavy, clanking gear, Ashe hadn’t heard him approach. His form, bathed in moonlight… He looked every bit a _naiad_ , a river spirit of old lore. Water made flesh, a guardian of nature. Shamefully, Dedue had stared for a long, thoughtless moment before Ashe noticed his presence. 

_“A-ah, you’ve found me.” Ashe blushed and shrunk into the water. Dedue politely averted his eyes, studying the bark on a nearby tree. “Is it my watch?”_

_“Not for a while.” He spoke slowly, carefully so as not to stumble over words he could barely piece together into coherent thought. “Dinner is - ah - will be served. Shortly.” His efforts were for naught._

_“Oh, um, alright!” Ashe took a small hand towel from the raised shore and began to dry his hair. He turned to leave, to flee while his light scouting leather armor might conceal his indecent thoughts. “Dedue?” Dedue hummed. “...Ah, n-nevermind, I um… I’ll see you at dinner?”_

_“I shall see you then.” Dedue took a few laps around the camp’s perimeter before dinner to clear his mind._

_It did not clear his mind._

Nearly a fortnite later, he still had not cleared his mind, both of what he saw, and of what he dreamt. Memories of Ashe in the river, retold in a fantasy where Ashe had invited Dedue to join him in the river. Thin fingers tangled in his hair, soft rosy lips lost in his own. Gods, Ashe deserved better than to be… to be _imagined_ so perversely against his will.

“Oh, um, no need to apologize.” Ashe’s voice brings him back to reality. He soaks a rag in strong-smelling alcohol. “I wish I’d taken more lessons on faith magic. This part will probably hurt quite a bit, alright? You can hold my hand? If - um, oh, Goddess I’m sure you’ve taken much worse pain - just, if you wanted! I’m sorry, I’m-”

“Ashe.” Dedue smiles. Drowsiness seeps into his bones. “You are doing fine. Please continue.” Ashe gently drags the rag across his wounds, painting stripes of fire over his bloody, torn tissue. Dedue steels himself, tries to ground himself on the pain, not Ashe’s gentle, entrancing touch.

It doesn’t work.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel slightly guilty I didn't include Ashe's perspective, since the prompt is mutual pining. But come on, it's obvious, isn't it? :)
> 
> Come say hi on Twitter :)  
> [@hanatamagos](https://twitter.com/hanatamagos)


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